George, a transgender man, begins writing in a journal to stave off loneliness as he tries to survive in the zombie apocalypse. After he finds a stash of food, his paranoia only makes his loneliness more intense. When he runs into strangers he taunt...
When I woke up this morning, for a second I forgot where I was. I burrowed my cheek deeper against the warm flannel pillowcase and pulled the blankets up tighter around my neck. During those seconds that my brain crossed the threshold between dreamland and consciousness, I was back at home. Janie's hair tickled my nose. Clara's cartoons floated under the crack of the closed door. "Did we set up the coffeepot?" I mumbled in some half-dream state. And, of course, that instantly broke the spell.
I clenched my eyelids, trying to cling to those gossamer threads connecting me to my past life, but it was no use. Janie's ghost was gone from the bed and the silence from the living room slammed into my ears.
For the first time in months, I felt hollow. Empty.
There is food in my stomach. Walls keep my body safe. Water pours freely from a tap. I am physically safer than I've been in two years. Yet my mind hasn't felt this fragile since I lost them.
I rolled over in bed and it took all my energy just to breathe. Slow inhale, feeling my ribs expand as my lungs take in air. Slow exhale, clenching my abdomen to push all the air out. In this world, living is a choice. Forget that and something will kill you.
But even knowing that, right at this moment, I can't move. I'm still laying in bed as I write this. Trying to remember the smell of Janie's shampoo. That clean soap scent with a hint of lavender.
Should I have stopped for that mother? Offered to share my bounty with that stranger and her children? Did I make an error in judgment?
No. Even as my pen writes these words, I know I didn't make a mistake. She was a trap. Bait. A trick. There isn't any other explanation. A single mother and two young children don't survive alone in this world without protection. Strong protection.
Stronger protection than I could offer.
I failed my own wife. My own child. All that is left of my family is me. I am the holder of their memory. My thoughts keep them alive. There is no monument to their existence. No gravestone. Not even photographs. If I die, then they are truly lost to this world. And I am not ready to let that happen.
I will survive. Whatever it takes.
Although, that means I should probably get out of this bed and do something to aid in my survival. Secure the perimeter. Figure out sustainable food options. Make a maintenance checklist for the house.
But I am sure it can wait until tomorrow.
Just thinking about it all makes me want to sink into this bed. I know my drive to live is in utter contrast to the weight of grief that clenches at my heart. Two opposite things can be true at once. Can't they? I deserve a day to wallow. Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.
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DAY 22:
I've always done my best thinking in the shower. This morning I spent a good half hour just letting rivulets of water roll over my head and down my shoulders. The hot water washed away some of my lethargy from yesterday. I just wish I had soap so I could wash away my grime, too.
